Sleeves
by dnofsunshine
Summary: As Takeru and Yamato's parents steadily grow apart, Yamato notices that his mother isn't the same person she's always been. She's sad. She cries a lot. Never leaves the house without long sleeves. Trigger warning. One-shot.


**Disclaimer/trigger warning:** I don't own Digimon. Or the cute fanart that is the cover. **Please be aware that this one-shot includes implied self-harm.** Proceed with caution. Thank you.

 **a/n:** The ages may not be entirely accurate. I apologize if that bothers you (I still can't decide if Takeru is seven years old or eight years old in Adventure, and it bothers me a lot for some reason). This has also been sitting in my Google Drive for a loooong time (like, back in June of 2016 when I posted "Never Enough"). So it's a bit old and unedited. I'm still a little nervous to post it, but... here it goes. Enjoy.

* * *

Yamato is three years old.

He's just about to finish up his tower of building blocks when Yuuko answers the door. Mama walks through it moments later with Daddy hovering anxiously at her side, one arm around her waist and the other clutching her hand. Her laughter is musical as she chides, "I'm pregnant, Hiroaki—not injured."

Yamato rises from the floor the moment he hears her voice, as excited as a little three year old can be. He leaves his friend, Taichi, on the floor and runs to his mother with a big grin. "Mama! Me and Taichi built a tower, come see!"

She laughs once again—a sound that is so rich and full that it makes Daddy laugh, too. There are noticeable creases of worry on his father's forehead, but they fade as his mother says, "Of course, Yamato."

"You should sit down first, Natsuko," Taichi's mother says without hesitation. "How was the ultrasound?"

Natsuko smiles at her son affectionately and allows Yuuko to lead her to the couch, where Taichi is still seated, frowning slightly. Probably because Yamato has abandoned him to show off their tower.

"...doctor said that the baby fine—oh, that's wonderful, honey. You and Taichi are so creative," Mama praises when he tugs at her sleeve, and Yamato can't help but grin—a cheeky, three-year-old grin. It widens as Mama adds, "You want to know a secret, boys?"

Taichi perks up as she addresses him as well. Yuuko stands once again to check on little baby Hikari, Taichi's three-month-old sister, who is sleeping soundly in the nursery room. It's about the fiftieth time she's done it, but then again Yamato isn't counting. When she's gone, Mama pulls Yamato into her lap and gives Taichi a happy smile.

"You're going to have a little brother," she says, poking Yamato's nose gently.

"I'm going to have a little brother, Taichi," Yamato echoes. Looks at Taichi and nods for emphasis. "I'm going to be a big brother."

Taichi grins smugly. "I'm a better big brother than you are."

"Nuh-uh."

"Yeah, huh."

"Nuh-uh."

"Yeah, huh."

Natsuko laughs again, releasing Yamato so the two can finish their tower. Yuuko returns to the room and shushes the boys since little Hikari is still sleeping, and he knows that they have to hurry because they won't have much time until Yamato and his parents have to leave before Taichi's father comes home for supper.

Yamato is three and half years old.

He's holding Daddy's hand, which is clammy and shaky. They walk into a room where Mama is sitting in a bed that looks too uncomfortable to actually be called a bed, her face pale and hair plastered to her forehead with sweat.

She smiles tiredly as the two enter the room, and Yamato wants to smile too because he loves seeing her smile. So he does. Releases Daddy's hand and runs to the bed. Stands on his tip toes so he can see the little guy bundled in a blanket in Mama's arms.

Daddy grabs him from behind suddenly, and he laughs as he's swept off of his feet, and then he's tall enough to see a glimpse of the tiny, slumbering face that belongs to his little brother.

"This is Takeru," his mother says, her blue eyes never leaving the baby's face. She shifts so Yamato can see the newborn—Takeru—better, careful not to wake him.

"Takeru," Yamato echoes, trying to etch the name into his memory, but the 'r' doesn't exactly sound the way it's supposed to. He repeats it several times, but the results are the same. He pouts, frustrated. "Mama?"

"What is it, hun?"

"Can... can I call him TK?" he asks, looking up at her.

She leans forward to kiss his temple. "Of course, Yamato. Of course."

They sit there for a long time, with Daddy shifting in his chair, letting Yamato get comfortable on his lap, and Mama gently cooing over the new addition to their family.

Yamato is five years old.

Mama and Daddy are arguing. Daddy has just returned from work, and the laundry isn't started, but that's only because Mama has been looking after him and TK for the last few hours. And it's true. Preschool ended hours ago; Takeru has been crying on and off since Mama picked Yamato up; the sink isn't exactly empty, and Yamato is hungry, and she's just now trying to figure out what they're going to eat for supper.

Still, Daddy is angry, and it's making Mama angry, and it's making TK upset.

TK's tiny face crumbles and reddens as his eyes fill with tears. Yamato rushes to his younger brother's crib, but his arms are too short to reach him. Mama is right behind him, though, her expression softening as she scoops TK up.

"Shh... it's ok. It's ok, Mommy's here," she soothes, kissing TK's forehead. Yamato looks up at her, trying to catch her gaze, but her eyes are locked on TK alone.

It's only after TK is quiet that she glances at him. She steadies the baby in her right arm before reaching out to squeeze Yamato's small hand with her free one. "Can we talk about this later? Yamato is hungry."

The question is directed toward Daddy. Yamato's too busy looking at Mama's and his intertwined fingers to see Daddy's face, but he hears him sigh quietly.

"Right. I'm sorry," he mumbles after a moment with a guilty undertone. Yamato's ears track his footsteps as he leaves the room, and then Mama is gesturing for them to sit on the couch.

"Is Daddy mad at us?" he whispers, as Mama carefully settles onto the sofa.

She pulls him close immediately, kisses his hair. "No, honey. He's not mad at you."

Her voice is somehow shaky and firm at the same time, and Yamato blinks up at her in confusion. Notices that her grip on his hand has tightened considerably. Sees the tears pooling in her eyes.

She has to reassure him twice that it isn't the two boys that Daddy is angry with, but he's really asking just to hear her say that Daddy isn't mad at her, either.

Daddy returns later deciding that they will order take-out for tonight. His voice is noticeably less irritated, and his eyes are apologetic as he sits next to Mama on the sofa and brushes his thumb against the top of her hand. She smiles at him but never says the words Yamato wants to hear.

Yamato is just about six years old.

It's nearing the end of spring break, meaning kindergarten is just around the corner. Yamato is simultaneously excited for it and dreading it; he knows Taichi will be attending the same school as he is, and there are a few kids from preschool that he hopes to see in his class this year. But he needs a new backpack and a whole bunch of new supplies, and with Daddy being the only one who's working at the moment, Mama says money is tight.

"We just don't have much this month," Mama tells him, her eyes sad and a little frantic. She asks him if he understands, and he doesn't, but he nods anyway. Looks back at the television that's playing some sort of cartoon with hamsters and underground tunnels and sunflower seeds. Doesn't pay attention to the way Mama picks at her sleeves.

Three-year-old TK is smiling as he stands, oblivious, next to Daddy, dashing toward Yamato in excitement. "Onii-chan...! Daddy says maybe—maybe if we're good, that we can—that we can get a kitty cat!"

Yamato looks at Daddy and grins, eyes widening. "Really?"

He and TK have asked a few times, brought up the subject of having a family pet every chance they can get. Daddy smiles tiredly but doesn't exactly confirm TK's excited statement. He steps into the front room, his hands a little red. He has just finished the dishes. "Natsuko. Can... can we talk?"

Yamato watches her stand, the smile on his face instantly gone, even as TK grabs his hand and leads him toward the pile of building blocks he used to play with years ago.

He tries not to wince when Mama draws a watery, collective breath. Knows without looking that her eyes are filling with tears. When he shuffles by him, her sleeve ruffles up just a little. There is blood on it.

Yamato is seven years old.

He and TK are in their bedroom, hidden behind the safety of the door. It fails to silence the raucous voices that are shouting on the other side. Angry words are thrown back and forth, ricocheting, and he pulls TK close, covers his little brother's ears because he shouldn't hear the string of profanity that so often falls from their father's lips.

He's not sure what started the fight. Something about money, and then something about Mama's new job, and something about Yamato, and about TK, and about the could-have-been-theirs stray cat that TK tried to take home after preschool one day, and then the laundry, and the dishes, and the bills, and apparently Dad's been drinking something, and Mama never leaves the house without long sleeves, and... and Yamato starts tuning them out after that.

Still. It's hard to ignore. Arguments are like daily chores—only the mess always reappears no matter how many times it's cleaned up. And there's never a real trigger.

The confusion comes out of nowhere, makes itself at home on the sofa. Annoyance arises from the carpet. Anger permeates the apartment like thick smoke. Hatred is written on the walls in invisible ink. It's unseen, but always there. And it's these emotions that work together to make his father utter the words: "Yamato, take Takeru and go to your room, ok? Your mother and I need to talk."

He complies but knows it's no use. He can still hear them, can still feel the emotions that have claimed this house as their own.

They're too loud, TK's tears tell him. He slides the only pair of headphones he has over TK's head, plugs them into his CD player. Plays the most peaceful song he can find. Turns it up so that his brother can't hear their parents, but not loud enough to his ears.

It's not enough to lull him to sleep. Yamato hugs his baby brother tighter; kisses his temple like their mother used to do when he cried. Soothes him. Shushes his sobs that at some point turn into hiccups, and then into sniffles.

It's not until TK completely stops crying that Yamato releases his own tears.

Yamato is seven and a half years old.

His vocabulary has advanced, but he isn't sure if that's a good thing. On Friday mornings, Mama and Dad go to marriage counseling. The word therapy comes up frequently. At the dinner table, Mama doesn't eat much of her food. Sips the word depression, chews on the word starvation, swallows the word sadness.

"Mama," TK whispers suddenly. Quietly. Repeats it when she doesn't respond right away.

"What is it, honey?"

He points to her sleeve. "Your arm is bleeding."

Yamato follows his brother's small finger. Sees that her sleeve is tainted crimson, and wonders why. It's not the first time he's seen it like that.

Dad's spoon clatters on his plate. All three of them jump, and he murmurs, "Yamato, I think you and Takeru need to leave the table. Finish eating in your room."

He doesn't object. As he guides TK to their room, he risks a glance backward. Dad watches Mama with eyes that scream the word divorce.

It's three weeks later. Yamato is still seven. TK is four and a half.

Mama and Dad are fighting again. Yamato knows why this time, though.

It's because of the monsters. The dinosaur and the giant parrot. How they illuminated the city and destroyed it. Yamato hadn't wanted to tell them about the monsters, but TK was so excited about the battle that he had shared what they saw with Mama.

So now he and TK are behind the bedroom door again. TK is listening to Yamato's music again, eyes red and sleepy, and Yamato is trying to figure out what the words terrorist and schizophrenia mean.

Two days later.

Yamato is almost asleep, TK curled up next to him with headphones on. He's slipping further and further away, so close to the realm of dreams when he hears it.

Glass shattering. Thundering footsteps. The door opens violently, and Dad's angry silhouette is outlined in the light of the hallway as he stands and stares, seemingly unseeing, at the two boys cuddled on the bed.

Yamato looks up at him, feeling fear gnaw at his chest. His grip on TK tightens and he feels his younger brother stir in his arms, before blinking sleepily up at him.

"Onii-chan?" he whispers groggily.

It happens really, really fast. Dad storms into the room, and Yamato hurries to take the headphones away from TK, and then they're being ripped apart and Dad is forcing Yamato to his feet.

"H-hey," he shouts, but his voice is almost mute compared to Mama's sobs that he can hear in the doorway.

"Come on, Yamato. We're leaving," Dad snarls, dragging him somewhat roughly away from the bed where TK still sits, wide, teary eyes trained on Yamato.

"Onii-chan," he shouts, struggling to get down from the bed. When he does, he lands clumsily, running after his older brother. "Onii-chan! No, Onii-chan! Daddy, where are you going?"

"Where _are_ we going?" Yamato asks his father, unable to keep the confusion and fear out of his voice.

"Away," is all their father says, before he grabs Yamato's backpack from off the hook that's hanging on the wall just a few feet above the ground. He sighs in frustration and flips the light switch on, opening dresser drawers and shoving clothes into the small bag.

Some shirts fall to the floor in his father's haste, but he doesn't seem to care.

"Onii-chan...!"

TK is tugging at Yamato's free hand now. Snot drips from his nose and his face is blotchy, eyes bloodshot. It comes to Yamato's attention that he's not the only one crying—Mama is still sobbing in the doorway, Dad is scrubbing angrily at his eyes, and Yamato's cheeks feel damp.

"It's ok," he murmurs. Knows it's far from ok. Dad releases his hand and Yamato pulls TK into his arms. Promises, "I'll be back, ok? Don't worry. I'll be back."

It's blurry. Dad races around the room and grabs more of Yamato's things and shoves them into his backpack until the zipper will no longer close. Then he's forcing Yamato to follow him out the door and into the hallway.

He only stops to throw the apartment keys on the floor in a fit of fury. Yamato's not sure if he'll be able to keep that promise.

Yamato is eight years old.

He and Dad are staring at the tv, but neither of them are paying attention to it. It's like this most nights unless Dad works late. They don't talk much—Yamato always has questions. About Mama. About TK. Wonders if he'll see them again. But Dad doesn't always have answers.

He wonders if he should stop asking. Knows he should, but he can't help it. He's angry. He's hurt. He's confused. He wants to see TK. _Needs_ to see TK. Needs to know if Mama is ok, if TK is ok, if they're managing. If they're eating. He worries, and he's not sure if it's ok for an eight-year-old to worry about these things but he does anyway.

His father finally caves one day and takes him to the apartment they used to share with his mother and younger brother. He phones Mama, and they talk. It's clipped and short, but it's something, and before Yamato knows it, Dad is walking him to the door.

Except they both hesitate. Yamato stares at the door, unsure. Behind that door is a broken family; is anger that lays dormant underneath the cobwebs of old wedding albums; is a woman who hides her pain beneath long sleeves and an empty stomach; is a brother who walks under the heavy weight of a father's absence.

They stand there for a while. Neither of them speak for a time. A long time. Dad just stares, as if he knows what's behind there, too. His heart wants to go in. His head says it's not a good idea.

So they don't.

When he and Dad get back to the car, he looks up. Sees TK peering at them through his bedroom window.

Yamato is three days from turning nine.

He isn't sure what's worse: the fact that he'll be spending his birthday solely with his father or the fact that they've already missed TK's birthday. It was five and a half months ago when TK turned five. He hadn't been there. Had been too much of a coward to call.

His heart stings as he thinks about it, and he thinks to himself that he won't cry. Crying won't make it better. Or does it? Did TK cry on his birthday? Did it make _him_ feel better? Did it soothe this terrible ache in his chest, or does TK's pain mirror Yamato's? He hopes it doesn't. TK doesn't deserve to suffer like this.

His mother used to say that it's ok to cry. To be sad. To be afraid. "It's not good to bottle things up," she used to say. "Crying is a filter. When you cry, you're letting out all your sadness and anger and leaving all the purities inside you."

He wipes at his eyes, though. Sniffs. The more he thinks about it, the more he realizes how much his mother cried. _Cries_. He knows deep inside that she still does. How much anger and sadness can one hold inside? How much do you have to cry before you're completely clean of such emotions? Does she cry because she thinks she's impure?

Taking a deep breath, Yamato shuffles to the living room. Dad is at work, which means that he's going to be alone until late. It hurts more when he's alone, but he knows that if Dad doesn't work then they'll be in trouble. He's learned a little bit more about how important money is.

He stares at the telephone for a long, long time. Minutes tick by, slowly. Should he call his mother? Will she pick up? Part of him is angry; wishes that she would call _him._ But he's sad more than anything else, and it's childish to think that his mother's voice will soothe it away, but he doesn't care. He… he wants to try. There's no harm in that, is there?

His hands shake as he picks the phone up from its cradle. It drones in his ear for a while before he finds the courage to type in his mother's number. His heart flutters nervously when it starts to ring. Once. Twice. Three times.

"Hello?" His mother's voice is hoarse. Tired. Yamato draws in another deep breath.

"Mama," he whispers, suddenly hopeful that she had answered. "I… hi, Mom."

"Yamato." She sounds just as relieved to hear his voice as he is to hear hers, and once again his heart does this flip-flop thing that he isn't used to. He swallows, trying to think of something to say. But his throat is dry and wants to close up for some reason. No words come out.

"Hi, sweetie," his mother says suddenly into the phone. "How are you?"

"I… I'm ok," he says, even though it isn't the truth. "I miss you."

"I miss you, too, baby," she replies.

"Is TK there?"

His mother hesitates. "He's asleep, hun."

"Oh."

He realizes that it's nine-thirty, and Takeru is only five. Of course he'd be asleep. But the knowledge doesn't make it hurt any less.

"I'm sorry," Mom says softly. "Were you wanting to talk to him?"

"No, I…" He pauses, uncertain. Doesn't really want to admit it out loud. But he can't help himself: "I wanted to talk to you. Is that alright?"

"Of course, Yamato. It's always alright."

"TK's not mad, is he?" he asks. "That we missed his birthday, I mean."

"I don't think so," she says, but the way her voice constricts tells Yamato the opposite. There is a bit of a pause before she adds: "He misses you."

Tears threaten to fall from his eyes. "I know."

"I miss you, Yamato." It's the second time she has said it.

"I'm sorry."

"No, baby, don't apologize," she says instantly. "It's not your fault. Nothing is, alright? Please…" She stops, and Yamato can hear her breathing slowly. It's shaky. Sounds like a sob. "Don't think that it's your fault, ok, baby? Because it's not."

"It's not yours, either," he says.

She doesn't respond right away. Takes about ten or so seconds to compose herself. Asks: "How is your father doing?"

"He's ok," the young blond responds and sounds like a broken record. Especially when he adds, "I think he misses you."

"I know. I miss him, too."

"You do?"

"Every day," she admits quietly.

He is silent for over a minute. Can't think of what to say. His chest hurts, but the pain isn't physical. It's never physical. He swallows again and again but he can't rid himself of this tightness in his throat.

"Mama," he croaks out.

"What is it, baby?"

"Can you stay on the phone?" Pauses. "Until I fall asleep."

"Of course."

He sniffs. Realizes that he's crying again, and wipes at his eyes. "I love you."

"I love you, Yamato," she echoes. And he's right. Her words put a little bit of hope in his heart. "Happy early birthday, baby."

"Thank you, Mama."

He closes his eyes, sitting down in a chair. Something about crying makes his eyes hurt, which makes him drowsy for some reason. Before he slips completely into a dream, though, he remembers something.

"Happy early birthday, Mama," he murmurs, because the day he turns nine is the day she turns twenty-nine.

Yamato is going on eleven years old.

It's the first time in a while that he's visited TK in three or so months. It may not seem like a long time compared to all the days and nights he's gone without his brother, but it still feels like forever. When he walks in the door, he feels his heart swell when TK's face lights up.

"Onii-chan!"

"Hi, kiddo," he says, and right as the words spill from his lips, he's tackled by his younger brother. Even though he's overcome with happiness, he feels a pang of sadness when he realizes how big his brother has gotten.

"I've missed you, Onii-chan," TK murmurs, squeezing him with an amount of strength that he doesn't believe a seven-and-half-year-old kid could possess. His voice sounds relieved, but there is a sorrowful undertone that he immediately picks up on.

"Natsuko," his father says in a greeting, smiling just a little.

Yamato looks up at him and sees his mother smile in return. Her smile, however, is tinged with sadness. "Hiroaki."

There's a bit of tension growing between them, he realizes, and he knows it won't be long before it becomes painfully obvious. He tugs at TK's sleeve. "Why don't we go to your room, TK?"

TK nods. "I can show you my new drawing!"

Before he knows it, TK is dragging him away from their parents. When he stumbles into his little brother's room and closes the door behind him, he realizes that it's a bit too tidy to belong to a seven-year-old. Dismisses that thought because their mother probably picks it up in her free time. If she works as much as their father does, however, he supposes TK is just learning how to pick up after himself early. He is a fast learner, after all.

"I drew this one yesterday," his brother says, pointing proudly at… at whatever that is. It's a mix of different colors: brown, orange, red, and grey. It's got stripes on his back and horns on his head. Are… are those wings?

He cracks a smile. "That's… a nice... dragon, TK."

"It's not a dragon," he says instantly, frowning. "It's a dinosaur."

"Is it?" He tilts his head for comedic effect. "Looks more like a dragon to me."

"It's not," the other repeats. "It's a dinosaur. See? I even colored it orange. And this one"—he scurries back to his desk, where a small stack of papers lay—"is a green parrot!"

"Nice," he says, leaning against the wall slowly. "Where did you see those?"

"I dream about them sometimes," he admits, smiling. "The dinosaur and the parrot always attack each other for some reason. It's always in the middle of the city. They destroy the whole place—bam, bam, Mega Flame! Bam!" He runs around, throws his arms up in the air. Takes a deep breath, and then exhales dramatically. "Mega Flame!"

Yamato's smile slowly disappears. Images hit him out of nowhere, and he feels a sharp tug at his heart. Orange dinosaur… green parrot… why are those familiar? He blinks, trying to remember. Feels frustrated when he can't.

"Mega fl—Onii-chan? Are you ok?"

Yamato looks up and sees Takeru looking at him in curiosity and concern. He blinks again, and the memory is gone. He shakes his head. "Yeah, bud. I'm alright."

Takeru smiles again, but this time it wavers. He lowers his arms and stops in his tracks, raising tiny eyebrows. "Are you sure?"

"Mmm-hmm. Your drawings are nice, Teek."

"My teacher thinks I have a really big imagination," he says, fiddling with his sleeves. "I bet you think so, too, huh Nii-chan?"

He laughs. "C'mere."

TK obliges. He runs up to Yamato and spreads his arms out, and Yamato doesn't hesitate to pick him up off the ground. Is once again reminded how big his brother has gotten.

TK leans his head on Yamato's shoulder. "I've missed you," he repeats softly.

"I've missed you, too."

TK's arms thread around his neck. He breathes in deeply, and Yamato walks over to his brother's bed, which is bigger than the last time he's seen it. Sits down on it, TK still cuddled in his arms, and hums softly.

"Did you bring your headphones, Nii-chan?"

"No, buddy," he answers and feels TK slump a little in disappointment.

"I miss your music," the younger blond says. "Mama listens to music, too. But it's really sad music."

Yamato hugs him tighter, cherishing this moment in his head. It feels as though someone has tapped on to his heart; like someone has cracked it open. But he doesn't want TK to see that. Can't let him see the flicker of longing that settles on his face for a few moments.

"I'll bring it next time," he promises.

"Really?"

"Of course."

There's a small pause. He feels TK move slightly, and hears a scratching noise. He pulls back, raising his eyebrows when he sees TK's small fingers picking at his sleeves. It's the third time he's done that, Yamato realizes.

"Teek."

"Yeah?"

"What did you do to your arm?"

"Nothing," TK says quickly. Too quickly. When Yamato catches a glimpse of his face, he sees the panic written across it.

Feels his big brother instinct kick into overdrive.

"Let me see," he orders, fingers tugging on the younger blond's sleeve.

Takeru fights. "No."

"Why not?"

"Because," he says stubbornly. "It's nothing."

"Then let me see."

"I said no— _Nii-chan!_ "

It's too late. Yamato has already pulled it up, and he sees four small scabs marking his little brother's wrist in straight lines. He inhales sharply, feeling tears prick at his eyes.

He swallows, once again overcome with images. This time, they're images he longs to forget. His mother. Her sleeves are tinted crimson. His father, yelling for her to stop, to get over it. That it doesn't make anything better. That she should talk to him more.

But she doesn't. She cries. Cries. Cries. He can picture the day he walked in her bedroom after waking up from a nightmare and was horrified to see similar markings on her wrists. But they were much deeper. Longer.

Dad was asleep on the couch when he walked in. But his mother was more than awake, eyes wide and filled with tears as she hurried to roll her sleeves down. The damage was done, though. And the next day, his parents were fighting about it.

He blinks, seeing his mother's crying face staring at him. When he blinks again, it's TK, whose expression is twisted with shame.

"Please don't tell," he pleads in a whisper. "Nii-chan, don't tell. Please."

TK's so young, he thinks. Too young. He swallows, confused. Hurt. Guilty. "Why?"

TK looks at his hands, sniffling. "I… I wanted to know why Mama did it."

His heart constricts. He opens his mouth to say something but he doesn't know what. He has wanted to know why for so long, too. But it's always been something he blocked out, or at least tried to block out. And now... His baby brother… his TK… so young, and vulnerable… easily influenced…

"Don't cry, Nii-chan," TK murmurs suddenly, looking ready to burst into tears. "It's not your fault, Onii-chan. I won't do it again…"

He wipes at his eyes and suddenly he's pulling his brother closer than ever. Doesn't care that he's hugging him with all his strength. "Promise me you won't, Takeru. Please."

"I promise," he whispers in reply, but Yamato doesn't loosen his grip.

Somehow, he feels like it's his fault.

Yamato is eleven years old.

He's staring at the sky, his eyes cold. He doesn't know why he feels like this. So detached. So incomplete. There's an empty hole in his chest, probably where his heart is. But he feels like someone has ripped it out, has stepped on it, beat it to death. Feels sort of numb.

Yeah, that's the word. Numb. The digital world has fallen apart, and they've only been gone for a few days. Some of their closest friends are gone, for good it seems. He hasn't seen a lot of them lately. Taichi says that they should get working on a plan as soon as possible. But ever since Hikari has entered the picture, he's seemed a lot more cautious. Careful. Hesitant. Yamato supposes that's a good thing.

He tilts his head, squinting. It… it looks like he can see people from here. Maybe. There are strips of color in the sky, followed by blackness. But there definitely are people up there, and even though it's far away, he sees two people that stick out the most.

It's his mother and his father. Holding hands. Yamato squints harder, noticing they're in the same clothes as before. His mother is wearing a sleeveless shirt. He didn't realize that earlier.

"You see them, too, huh Onii-chan?" TK whispers beside him. Slips his hand in Yamato's.

"Yeah," he murmurs, squeezing TK's hand tightly. "I do."

The numbness fades just a little.


End file.
